Burning Bright
by FemL
Summary: "What immortal hand or eye, could tame thy fearful symmetry?" She was a spectator, a wild card driven only by her own whims, indifferent to the complex relationships of Westeros. Despite this, the hired entertainer for the King finds herself a pawn in the game that the highborn of the realm play amongst themselves. JaimexOC
1. Chapter 1

Tourneys were naught of curiosity within the realm since the beginning of King Robert Baratheon's reign. The lack of rarity affected the Hand's Tourney not, a flood of eager patrons, nimble-fingered thieves and [not-always-so] valiant knights still rushed the walls of King's Landing once word of the tourney had been spread throughout the realm. Bodies were hard-pressed for unoccupied space, the sea of faces swelling as highborn Sers parted the enamored masses, ebbing as events and street markets stole the baseborn civilians' attention away. Merchants' insatiable lust for coin was diminished, their greedy grins growing with every silver crown that tinkled in their overflowing money pouches. There was no lack of entertainers either - fools, bards and scantily dressed women dotted the crowds, hoping to win the favor of the drunken King.

Apart from the throng of people, in the long shadow birthed by a towering stone wall, stood a woman. Her eyes were shrouded by the shade cast by the hood of her deep green cloak and her mouth was masked by the silky black cowl of her clothes. Wisps of inky hair escaped the cover of her cloak, dancing in the ever-present warm breeze of the South. Her posture reeked of a feline aggression, almost enough to picture a twitching tail peeking out from the end of her cloak. She had been waiting for far too long, and she was quickly losing patience. Strange noises sounded from within the numerous crates that surrounded the woman, and they seemed to share the annoyance that the woman demonstrated. The creatures contained within the cages of wood wanted released as badly as the woman wanted to be out of the midday heat.

A man that called himself Varys had made a proposition to her a few moons passed. The words written in his letter to her had been flattering - overtly so. Disgustingly so, to the woman, and he had addressed himself as _Lord_ as well, a fact which the woman found distinctly amusing. Westeros' titles were of little concern to the Eastern peoples, especially to those as deep in the East as Asshai. If he had been trying to assure her consent, he had failed in that particular attempt. She suspected not, however, as the price that this Lord Varys was willing to pay for her services was ridiculous, and most certainly meant to be bribe. Bribe as it may be, the woman sent a bird accepting the job anyway. The gold she had in her possession was running frightfully low and, more pressingly, she had found her life ridden with a certain ennui as of late.

If the woman hated anything, it was boredom.

So, despite the lord's frustrating absence, the woman continued her waiting, until a young squire in a brilliant purple silk tunic arrived. "Miss Feein Che?"

"Fainche, yes." Fainche responded, only mildly bothered by the child's mispronunciation. "Like 'fine' with a 'kha' sound at the end." The Asshai'i woman's voice was remained laden with a heavy Eastern accent, despite her vain attempt to hide it. It made her seem inexperienced with the ways of Westeros and further emphasized how out of place she was within the great, imposing walls of King's Landing.

"I do hope you brought help, boy," the woman began, studying the boy's pale, frail limbs as she slipped from her perch atop one of her crates."Otherwise, my beasts might be inclined to eat the nearest piece of meat when I release them."

The boy shook his head politely, well-groomed locks rustling from the movement, as several larger boys filed into the space. These boys did not speak to her, simply bobbing their heads when she informed them on the art of moving live creatures. They all lacked tongues, she eventually realized, when one boy's heavy breathing happened to open his mouth. The fact made her stomach twist; she vaguely wondered just _what_ sort of trouble she had wandered into.

Fainche, once the squire-boy gestured skittishly for her to follow, briefly hesitated. The beast-woman longed to crack open the cage with her beloved shadowcat, feeling a growing sense of emptiness as the distance between her and the feline widened. It had been far too long since Fainche had been without the creature - she almost felt as naked without the prowling predator beside her than she did without her sword.

Still, she followed.

The Beastmaster brushed shoulders with a countless number of people as she followed the boy's head through the impossibly crowded streets, however, only one caught her attention. It was a foul, reeking woman whose unsanitary habits allowed mold to grow in the rolls of her excess fat. The woman had no teeth that were white, her gums filled with dark-spotted bone and gaps where the rest should be. Mud and grime coated her plump, round face and alert eyes stood out behind a mop of greasy brown locks. "Ah, m-me sorry milady," the beggar woman cried softly, hobbling away quickly after. The encounter was nothing of note, if one disregarded the woman's eyes.

Fainche had, on several occasions, interacted with the lesser peoples of the realm due to a job, a petty bout of revenge or simply being poor herself. None of them had eyes such as that woman's. The baseborn 'trash' as the highborns so fancied to dub them, had hungry eyes. Eyes that longed for an escape from the constant gnawing in their stomachs and the malnourished aches that plagued their bones. None of them had eyes that were as aware, as focused as that woman's had been.

Fainche let the curiosity, the mild perturbed pinprick of a feeling in the recesses of her mind fade. She was not here to stick her nose where it did not belong.

And so, she followed.

The boy led her through the maze of stone walls with swift feet. Up chipping stairs of limestone worn by countless pairs of feet, past the grand majesty of Visenya's Hill, through the shadow of the Great Sept of Baelor whose reaching spires seemed to pierce the skies, and passing the chaos of the crowded, ever-busy Muddy Way. The impossibly black marble of the Alchemist's Guildhall dominated the left of the horizon. The pale red stone of the Red Keep turned a bloody crimson under the light of the setting sun. King's Landing was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a continuous juxtaposition of magnificence and filth. Fainche was not comforted by the city's indecisive nature, it was too much like one of her beasts. Except this time, she feared, she would be completely helpless to tame its unstable nature.

The journey up and into the depths of the bloody Red Keep was a wary one. The boy had not slowed his quick-footed pace, yet the suspicious eyes of the heavily armored guards on her was unnerving. Her skin blossomed with goosepimples, as she felt their helmet-hidden eyes crawl across her, watching her like a wild animal. Fainche suddenly felt the want to slink into the shadows and never enter the walls of the Red Keep again.

Yet, she continued to follow.

"Boy, are we almost there?" Fainche inquired, her long strides quickly bringing her in-step beside the boy. The boy nodded curtly in response, speeding ahead of the woman and up a side staircase that ran up and into the depths of the keep.

Windows, displaying the glimmering ship-filled expanse of Blackwater Bay, lined the hallways. She watched people, tiny dots in the distance, going about the River Gate as the pair followed the curve of the hallway. Merchants and sailors unloading their wares and scurrying to taverns and whorehouses to indulge in pleasures they rarely participated in. Men in gleaming suits of armor stood out amongst the common rabble, parting the sea of chaos. Fainche found the docks of the River Gate oddly comforting - ports were the same anywhere one went, from the across the Narrow Sea to the docks of the Free Cities to the Jade Sea ports of Asshai.

Sharp, amber eyes flittered away from the scenery, to the dark oak and iron door the boy had stopped before. Inky black eyebrows knitted in contemplation, Fainche weighing her next decision. Pros and cons. Benefits and risks. A curious gnawing consumed her gut. She was nervous - fearful, almost - about the path Fainche had forged in front of herself.

_Gold_, Fainche reminded herself, _think of all that gold_. Fainche supposed she should feel guilt over selling herself and her beasts for money. She refused such a burden, however. Fainche had not been morally correct enough to struggle when she could kill, steal and whore herself out for a few coins to get her by. Compared to her former occupations, this was the most forgiving, and so Fainche swallowed her doubt. If anything, this job was promising to be rather interesting for her.

Fainche turned to thank the boy who had led her to her employer, only to find no boy remained. A small smile danced on the edges of her lips, the childish spark of mischief gleaming in deep yellow eyes, as she moved to knock on the iron-banded door.

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**This is my first story I have posted onto and it may turn out to be rather horrible, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless. Reviews are encouraged! I would like to know what you all think of this chapter and the character so far. Have you guessed her employer yet? **

**See you all soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

Fainche was met with an overwhelmingly sweet smell - as if a garland of lilacs had been soaked in honey and left to sit in the sun. The man before her was powdered, pale and regrettably large. Painfully purple silks lined in golden thread clung strangely to the excess around the man's waist, pulling across the hills of fat and flesh then draping loosely over the valleys and creases. He was bald as a babe, and seemed as feminine as a woman who had borne one. Fingers the size of blood sausages and palms twice as wide fiddled with one another, worrying the skin on the back of his hands. His very presence made her skin crawl like a mound of frantic ants.

"Miss Fainche, I do hope you did not wait too long for the boys," the man before her smiled politely, the fat of his face gathering atop his cheeks.

"Almost," Fainche began, Varys inviting her into the room. "It should be of no concern to you. I am here now, that is all that matters, yes?" She let the deep green fabric of her hood fall away, fully revealing the features that defined her face. Deep set, almond eyes of amber rested beneath arched, black brows and sat upon prominent cheekbones. Pink lips, a sliver slimmer than most, were accentuated by the thinness of her jaw. A thick fringe of black cast a constant shadow across her eyes, giving a distinctly feline appearance. Fainche was not breathtakingly beautiful - no, her features were far too sharp, too feral for such praise.

"Care for drink? Iced wine almost makes this summer heat bearable," Varys suggested, shuffling silently over to a table with pre-prepared refreshments; a silver flagon of wine sat beside an ornate bucket of ice. A matching pair of simple silver goblets rested on the red oak table in front of the polished silver containers.

"If it is no trouble, milord," Fainche responded, scanning the room with wary eyes. Fine, brilliantly colored silks decorated the edges of windows and intricate Myrish laces spread like spider's web across the fronts of throw pillows. Leather-bound journals, maps and half-open letters were scattered across the tops of a desk that resided in the corner of the room. The very subtle aroma of parchment barely made itself know beneath the heavy stench of sweet flowers.

"No trouble," the lord refuted, scuffling over to Fainche, offering her the wine-filled goblet.

The Beastmaster accepted it gratefully, considerably parched due to her long day spent in the sun. Fainche was not overly fond of wine, much preferring the familiarity of harder liquors, and the honeyed smell of the red drink heightened her disappointment. _Too sweet_, Fainche thought, sipping the wine. She continued to drink nonetheless, all too happy to moisten her dry mouth.

"My thanks, Lord Varys." Fainche did not smile as she offered her gratitude, only proceeded to study the man before her. "Is there a reason you chose to hire me, Varys? I was not aware that skills were particularly well-known across the Narrow Sea."

"They are not," Varys began, his courteous smile a stark contrast to the hard gleam of cleverness in his eyes. "I have friends in Essos that have sung high praises of your skill; I merely believed that you would suit the King's tastes. Is that a such a sin, my dear lady?" Fainche's decisive disregard of formalities was not lost on the eunuch.

"Such sweet words for a baseborn woman, Varys," Fainche smiled back, a fake, mocking smirk that looked almost threatening beneath her narrowed eyes. "But of what concern are a spiders webs to a butterfly that has not yet been caught in them?"

Taking a final sip of the honeyed wine, the woman abandoned her goblet on the nearest surface. The soft _thump_ of heavy silver on aged wood was the only sound in the room before a tension-ridden heartbeat past between the pair. "Listen to me, sounding like a whore who wants to pick the man who - her. I will perform for your King's court, as long as you pay what you promised."

Fainche reclaimed her cloak from its place on the back of a chair, deftly adjusting the thick, green fabric across her shoulders. She was swiftly becoming antsy in this spider's home, feeling too much like prey in the eunuch's company. It was a foreign sensation, one that the Beastmaster had long forgotten and her reason for such misplacement were quick to recall. Fainche hated it and she was not the kind to linger when she could flee from unfortunate things.

"I assume I shall see you on the morrow, milord?" Fainche asked, a certain courtesy creeping back into her voice._ With my payment,_ Fainche kept that part to herself, offering an obligatory smile to her new employer in the words' stead.

"Certainly," Varys returned her look, his thin lips vanishing as his mouth stretched wide. "Do you need assistance in acquiring boarding?" Varys abandoned his goblet next to hers, resuming with his incessant hand-worrying.

Fainche nearly laughed at his question - knowing far too well that whether she accepted his help or not, that she would be not going to her temporary home alone.

"Oh? 'Twould be very helpful, milord," Fainche said, her smile having too much wolf to be considered sheepish. "Mayhaps you could send the woman from earlier? The one I ran into on the street? She had such _lovely_ eyes and she smelled so vaguely of lilacs,"

Fainche pointedly met Varys' gaze, a taunting glint surfacing in the amber depths. The eunuch's pleasant expression faltered, if only for a brief moment, before moving over to the woman. A fat hand found a place on the small of the woman's back, Varys proceeded to guide Fainche to the door with silent steps. "My dear, it is ill-advised for such a pretty little butterfly to provoke a spider, especially when the butterfly does not see the entirety of the web."

Shrinking ever so slightly at the poorly veiled threat, Fainche swallowed infinitesimally. She had been careless with her words - far too unaware of the workings of this foreign land to safely make such challenges. Fainche realized, at that smiling man's face, that she was a pathetically small fish in a sea of sharks. Regaining her voice, she responded, refusing to leave on such a note.

"Yes, what a silly little bug," She said jokingly, though her face held no humor. "I shan't need any of your assistance this night, Lord Varys. My thanks for your offer, nonetheless."

Dipping her head, Fainche pulled her cloak tighter around herself. "It was a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, milord."

"I assure you, it was just as much of a pleasure for me," Varys said, opening the door for the woman.

Once again concealing her face with the hood of her cloak, Fainche stepped out of the eunuch's room and into the hall of cold stone. Appreciating the solitude, the woman took a long breath before continuing back down the corridor, ignoring the view of the harbor, this time. She was all too eager to flee from the hellish walls of the Red Keep, slightly fearful of meeting any other residents of the castle. If they turned out to be of a similar character to Varys, she had no desire to acquaint herself to them.

Fainche flew down the hall, long strides and soft steps causing little commotion in the passageway. It was only when the sound of muffled voices reached her ears did the beastmaster hesitate. Rounding the corner, the warm light leaking from an open doorway drew her attention. It was only a brief glimpse, but it was quite enough for Fainche's well-versed mind.

A stifled moan and a flurry of golden hair and fine clothing. Had they no shame? Even at the whore-filled pleasure houses, they bothered to close doors. Fainche shook her head in slight disbelief, blaming their indiscretion on Westeros' culture, and troubled herself to close the door for the busy couple. _Let them enjoy their fun in peace_, Fainche thought, shutting the door as quickly and quietly as she could manage before hurrying away.

The couple froze as the sound of the door shutting reached their ears. The blonde man was off the woman in seconds, scrambling for his trousers as she clutched fine silks to her bare breasts.

"Jaime! They saw! They saw us!" The woman whispered harshly, fear claiming the former color in her face. Her brilliant green eyes urged Jaime to seek out their intruder, and the man complied to his lady's wishes. Fingers fumbling with his armor due to the hurry in which the knight donned it, Jaime Lannister, on his Queen sisters' request, snatched up his sword and left to search for the perpetrator.

The ser, however, was far too slow on the hunt, his prey already at the Red Keep's gate. The Lannister cursed silently, running a calloused hair through golden locks. It was both of their heads if he did not find the one who had seen them and he was unwilling to pay that price.

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Sorry for the rather rushed ending! I hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless :] I will try to update once or twice every month, however, this story is at the mercy of my life so we shall see how often I honor that goal.

Thank you for all of the reviews, favorites and follows! It surprised me as this is my first story on ffnet. A special thanks to my reviewers:** CherryBlossomTrinity, The Velvet Ash, Miss. Lori MacManus, JollyLoser** and** BookWorm4479** for taking the time out of your lives to give me feedback! I really appreciate your insight and ridiculously happy that you all enjoyed the first chapter! I was ecstatic when I read BookWorm's review. Thank you all so very much!

See you soon!


	3. Chapter 3

The inn reeked of piss, sweat, and ale. While remaining an assault on every sense known to man, Fainche found her new residence comfortingly familiar. Piss was preferred to lilacs and sweat to suspicious glares. The Hanged Man's Inn was a humble building - wilting wood floors creaked underfoot, soft dirt revealed itself where its wooden armor had worn away. Old oak boards were ravaged by rot, the dark swirls of mold creeping up the walls and across floors like an all-consuming shadow. There were no windows in the commons, the only source of light a low-hanging chandelier of half-melted candles whose burning never ceased. A portly woman stood behind the bar, shamelessly returning the half-drunk flirtations of her customers.

Fainche sat, crudely propped on her elbows, at one of the several wooden tables with an untouched pint before her. It was unlike the woman to refrain from drinking alcohol, being good friends with the distraction that booze offered. None of her problems were unsolvable, as long as she had a little encouragement from a good few goblets of ale. Fainche vaguely thought to her usual reaction to danger and new places - customarily, she'd get drunk and get a good fucking from whatever bastard took her fancy that night. Yet here she sat, sober as a silent sister, surrounded by a bunch of drunk idiots.

Deep amber eyes scanned the inn, sharp and wary of any strange faces. Fainche was aware that the eunuch probably had someone watching her tonight - perhaps she would not be alone for the entirety of her stay in Westeros. She doubted that Varys would want her to misplace her head before his intended purpose for her was fulfilled. Thoughts were a maelstrom in her mind, drowning her senses and forcefully pulling deeper into the murky depths. The woman realized all too well that she was walking a path of rotten ice - one hesitation, one misplaced step and all was done for her. It was but a moment before Fainche surfaced from the seas of her mind, as it was far too full of sirens that sung of only memory for her to enjoy the greedy waters.

No more thoughts.

She downed the piss-ale before her quickly, relishing the burn as it slipped through her throat and settled like liquid fire in her stomach. Fainche smirked, feeling the telltale warm tingle of the foul yellow liquid spreading like an epidemic through her body.

No more thoughts.

A man, a comely appearance with a shock of light brown hair, caught her eye. He sat among other men that would've have looked respectable, had they not been drunk off their asses, and seemed almost as tipsy as they did. Fainche's grin grew, a predatory, sensuous expression, as she looked the man over with hooded eyes. Slithering from her perch on the bench, Fainche stalked toward the man with feline grace and a feral smile. Only briefly did she think about how she wasn't drunk enough for this yet.

No more thoughts.

"Care to buy a woman a drink?" Fainche asked the crowd of men, Eastern accent a thick as she spoke. She felt no need to cover her origins now. She held no desire to impress these men, only to bed them. The men took only moments to respond, excitedly calling for another round of ale. Fainche took up roost next to the brown-haired man, giving him a slight smile, before turning to the rest of the lot. "Bottoms up!" She laughed, guzzling the drink, eager for the high it offered.

No more thoughts.

The events of the next few hours were unclear, filled with black holes of time and blurry memories. Fainche woke beside the man whose name she still did not know, fully aware of the familiar reek of sex. Sitting up, the naked woman pulled her knees to her chest, propping her elbows on top of them. The fouled sheets pooled around her body, exposing unclothed breasts, as she ran slender fingers through unkempt black hair. Her fingers lingered in the mess of locks, tearing at the roots till Fainche felt her scalp sting. She felt strangely unclean, the dried layer of sweat and the wetness between her legs disgusting her. It was not often that Fainche felt sickened by her loose ways, usually enjoying the satisfaction of a successful night, yet now all she felt was the migraine from her hangover and the ache in her lady parts.

Slipping from the warmth of the rough spun covers, Fainche hastily dressed herself. Her clothes showed no ill-treatment, not revealing any rips or tears as they usually did after a such a night. The black leather and cotton of her cowl-necked blouse remained unstained by any unsavory fluids and her cloak had been draped carefully across a post of her bed. Fainche tied the leather bindings of her pants with practiced fingers, a small smile pulling at her lips. Closing the gap between herself and the nameless man in but a few quick strides, she gave him a chaste kiss on his forehead. "My thanks," She breathed, not wishing for the embarrassment that would commence if she deigned to wake him. "Your company was more enjoyable than most, Ser."

Fastening the deep green cotton of her cloak with a old clasp, ornately decorated with the amber and obsidian of Asshai, Fainche spared no more glances at the man before she left the room. She would not think of the man again, his attractive face would fade and so would the night he shared her bed. He was naught of concern to her anymore. That man had lost Fainche's notice as soon as he had finished inside her.

Fainche stepped out of the Hanged Man with little weight on her chest and a certain excitement stirring within her breast. She knew only soft whispers and vague rumors of Westeros, but she knew for certain that they had no magic like Asshai possessed. Westeros had only mad kings and worn, foul men and by the light of R'hllor was she going to dispel such wearisome things. She was not paid to dispirit the crowd, she was paid to entrance it.

A wild grin curled the edges of her thin lips, the white stripes of her shadowcat catching her eye. It had taken far too long for her precious beast to escape, but she appreciated his distance as causing a panic in the people-clogged streets of King's Landing was certainly unwise. With steps in time with her distant shadowcat, Fainche headed toward the bloody walls of the Red Keep.

-*-.-*.-*-.-*-.*-.*-.-*-

It was nearly the midnight hour before Fainche was beckoned by a steward cloaked in golden lions on a red field. Upon her arrival at the keep earlier that evening, she had been presented with new clothing, as her traditional travel-worn leather ensemble had been deemed inappropriate for the company of a king. As such, Fainche was submitted to the slight physical obstacle that the long black drapes of Myrish silks offered. The fine fabric was unfamiliar against her skin - far too fluid, far too soft for her to receive comfort from. Her breasts went without support, as there was no corset, and the cut of the dress accentuated her very slight curves.

A cool fury flickered in her eyes. Fainche had seen to speaking with Varys again, in order to discuss her performance tonight, and while conversing with the eunuch had been much more pleasant that the previous time, she was still unnerved by the once-man. Certainly, he was smiles and pleasantries and very proper around even a woman such as herself yet a particular sense of being only a miniscule part of something far greater always played at the edges of her mind around the eunuch. It did not help that he required her to be soaped and scrubbed until her skin glowed like a pretty maiden's cheeks after insinuating about her actions the night before. Did he have someone watch her fuck the man from last night? The notion had made her face flush with humiliation and Varys had triumphed over her yet again. Lord Varys had shamed her and Fainche was far too powerless to even retaliate. It made her blood burn in her veins.

Nevertheless, here she stood, waiting for her turn to play the fool in front of the drunken King, all for a fat lot of gold.

The velvet-pelted shadowcat that was curled lazily at her feet gave her comfort, if only just a sliver. His white tipped tail flicked her toes in vague annoyance, as if he shared his master's masked rage, and despite the black lids that cloaked the beast's golden eyes, the restless nature of his ears revealed the cat's vigilance. Fainche took a long, deep drink from the goblet in her hand. Traditionally, the woman refrained from drinking moments before a performance, but Fainche had a ghost of a feeling that she might need the high the booze offered once again.

Another steward [perhaps the one from earlier, although Fainche could never quite differentiate one golden-haired, green-eyed boy from the next] bathed in lions beckoned her forth and Fainche moved to follow, the shadowcat at her heels. Only briefly did the woman let herself think of how deep in the shit of Westeros she had already found herself before stepping out before the crowd.

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Hello again everyone! I want to tell you guys how happy and grateful and _surprised_ I am by all the reviews, favorites and follows I've received already on this story! A special shout out to those that reviewed last chapter: **The Velvet Ash**, **Jedi-Helen** and **Savannah's Angels!** Thank you guys so much for taking the time to review :] Please continue to tell me what you think and I'm glad everyone is liking Fainche so far! Hopefully you guys don't dislike her after this chapter and, speaking of dislike, I hope that the references to sex in the first part weren't off-putting. Things really pick up next chapter!

See you soon!


	4. Chapter 4

The sheen of the sweat adorning Fainche's skin seemed almost natural. The firelight gleamed off the streaking beads of perspiration as if she was draped in a hundred thousand diamonds. It was but the beginning of her performance, yet bears with pelts as black as the night had already danced with her, golden lions had already bowed to her, and great tawny birds with talons as sharp as swords had already soared for her. The obsidian silk of her dress clung to her breasts and torso uncomfortably and, if her audience had been more sober, somewhat obscenely. Fainche, as she once again flicked the long, draping skirts of her dress from her ankles, longed for her leather jerkin. Although the woman was unlikely to admit it, the length and looseness of her gown, weighed heavily on her mind. Fire's nature was unpredictable and Fainche typically preferred to avoid feeding its flames with fabric. Alas, her performance mustn't end yet, as her reputation and, more importantly, her gold depended on it.

Brilliant red lips pursed for a low whistle, pulled across her teeth in a feral grin once the sound escaped the sweet grasp of her mouth. Hands more calloused that all of those of the audience tonight added together gripped a large hoop of copper, hard before Fainche tossed the ring high in the air. The russet metal, as if to strike envy in the sun itself, flared to life, flame lapping greedily at the hoop's surface.

And so the show began.

Song, deep and thrumming, filled the air. One less knowledgeable might accuse the woman of blood magic, by how ritualistic her movements seemed and sensual. The song was vaguely High Valyrian, perhaps a bastard of the language. Skirts of shadow swirled around her like dancing demons, a spectacular waltz of fire, darkness and flesh enthralling the drunken audience. Flame licked almost affectionately at Fainche's glistening skin, as if it were a loyal hound and she its beloved master. The woman's striking amber eyes remained closed most of the dance, as if the brilliant light hurt her eyes, despite how intensely they flared when the flames reflected in their golden depths. Fainche's shadowcat looked ablaze, a coat of polished jet and bone white catching the light in such a way that it glowed red when jumping through the hoops of fire, and dancing with whips of flame.

Many of the crowd [notably the lesser lords and their wives and children] were not aware that their mouth hung agape, their eyes far too distracted and their minds far too lost to correct themselves. Fainche had long ago lost the attention of the great drunken King, as he had found the wine and the space between a serving girl's thighs more interesting than her performance and his queen had fled before it had even begun. In Fainche's brief glimpses of the powdered man who employed her, she thought she noticed a dark glare in his eyes, although it might've simply been the way the half-light illuminated him. Surely the eunuch would show nothing but that pretty smile of his in such a mass of noble bodies.

The end was clear when it inevitably arrived - a violent burst of light and then, suddenly, Night was crowned King and darkness reigned. Candles did little to fend off the shadows that crept where once light dwelled and their soft flickering flames seemed feeble in comparison to the inferno that had dominated the Asshai'i woman's performance. Silence ensued - the sers and fair maids alike irresolute of their opinion on the woman. Fainche, breathless and covered in more sweat than cloth, watched the uncertain crowd with a predatory gaze. In truth, she half-expected them to start bleating like the sheep they were. How lost the lambs looked without their pie-eyed shepherd's opinion. It did not matter to them that their shepherd was currently balls-deep in a waitress's wet hole - they still wanted his guidance, as if they had no opinions of their own.

Of course, ultimately, Fainche received her judgment. Most of the older Lords gave her a polite applause - their ladies busying themselves with hurrying their children away from the foreign woman. She enjoyed the youths' verdict more thoroughly- some of the more cockeyed lordlings even standing in ovation and a few children [the ones yet to be swooped down on by their hawkish mothers] even tentatively looking to touch her shadowcat. She declined all offers to touch her cat - whether it be the one between her legs or the beast beside her - and, after a sweeping bow, impatiently headed inside.

Fainche, pleased beyond measure to be away from the probing eyes of Westerosi nobles, scratched the oversized cat behind his ears. It was a considerably loving gesture from the woman, one not many would ever see or experience, but it was fleeting and she quickly removed her rough hands from its fur. "You did well, Malachi," Fainche whispered in the smooth, hissing language of Asshai, before absentmindedly tossing the beast a piece of jerky.

She slinked through the halls, unfamiliar in every right and too brightly lit for her tastes. Rich tapestries portrayed sigils of which she had no desire to affiliate herself with, and of grand battles that only inspired feelings of pride in the rich. The poor had no use for such trivial things as honor or grandeur, and while Fainche had a great deal of pride, she felt no shame in slitting a man's throat while he slept. Hell, she even considered it _merciful_ to do so - at least they would not feel the pain of death. Fainche had stopped her wandering at the top one of the many towers in the Red Keep, one that overlooked the Blackwater Bay, and was quite pleased that she did.

The wind held traces of the sea, brought along with the Myrish laces and the many merchant faces, despite the freshwater that composed the lake. The scent soothed her - easing the tension that had taken her muscles hostage and the ache that radiated out from her temples. She watched the ships, swaying ever-so-slightly as the water caressed their hulls, and inspected their sails. While a fondness for sigils was something she did not have, she knew ships rather well - the types, the sails, as there was little in Asshai that did not come from the Jade Sea and Fainche had spent several years [on and off, of course, as the vessel eventually made her feel confined] of her life on the sea. Never mind her reasons, Fainche found ship-watching to be a enjoyable distraction.

That was, until, she heard the feminine tones of a certain eunuch behind her. "A pleasant night, is it not, my lady?"

Fainche's lips pressed into a thin line. She was in no mood to dance more this night, whether it be with animals and fire or a waltz of words. Alas, Fainche tamed her tongue and schooled her thoughts to more appropriate subjects. "Good evening, Lord Varys," she replied, casually looking at the man over one exposed shoulder. _I am no more a lady, than you a man, Lord Varys_, Fainche thought, and was very tempted to say, but refrained. "Indeed it is, although I am so very tired that it does not seem to matter." Fainche tried hard to speak as the Lords here did, but it was a fruitless endeavor as her heavy accent butchered the words far too much.

Fainche was hunched, unceremoniously leaning on folded forearms, her ass sticking out and weight put mostly on her right leg. She was gazing across the bay as Varys moved beside her and did not deign to look at the eunuch. "Is there something you wish to discuss, Varys?" She asked, worn and with little patience.

Varys smiled at her rough tongue and blunt manner, although it was a bit sad. Fainche was not entirely sure whether the emotion was genuine. "My lady, surely you must know not to speak in such a manner. Certainly, the people here are much more easily offended and quick to draw their blades." He was avoiding the question and Fainche twitched in annoyance.

"In regards to the other part of your letter, Varys...ah," Fainche stopped herself, thinking back to the careful calligraphy of his first letter. "Your lizard-keeping friend says the hatchlings are fine. He wonders when they might come join you here in Westeros." She was aware that she had ruined the men's code quite thoroughly but she knew that Varys was a clever, clever man and he would understand. She did not worry herself overmuch about it.

The eunuch maintained his overly friendly smile, his hands strangely still in those great purple sleeves of his. "Ah, how very unfortunate that my friend lacks patience," he sighed, peeking over at Fainche. A leather bag, fat with gold, was placed before Fainche's arms, on the cold stone of the tower wall. It was a bribe, Fainche knew, for her silence. She smiled. "I'm rather fond of my tongue as well as my head, Varys, there is no need to worry. Although, the extra gold is much appreciated."

"I shall see you on the morrow, then, my lady," Varys said, bowing his bald head before departing.

Fainche looked back to the ships, thinking just how much she was starting to hate the smell of lilacs.

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Thanks for all your reviews! Please keep them coming! I'll mention all the reviewers next chapter but I am sort of in a rush to post this tonight! Thanks so much for reading! Jaime is introduced next chapter so hang on just a bit longer :]

See you soon!


	5. Chapter 5

Few woke willingly at the dawn that followed the Hand's Tourney. Valliant Sers clutched aching heads as they patrolled the great walls of the Red Keep and noble Lords rose late, often beside a woman who was no wife of his. Even Robert Baratheon himself stirred no earlier than noontime, although no one had expected anything different from the excuse for a king. Nevertheless, despite the headaches resounding in the heads of all King's Landing and the strange rashes that bloomed overnight on the more sensitive bits of the City Watch, the grand city of King's Landing was just as bustling as per usual, more-so even in the last days of the tourney. Merchants grew desperate to hawk their wares, ever-hungry for an extra copper, as the Lords and their gullible Ladies vacated the capital and the pipe-dreaming performers found work in the whorehouses, high hopes of a place at court, crushed.

Fainche rose early, well before first light, as sleep was a wily beast that she was unable to do anything more than grasp at last night. Hair blacker than ink was pulled back, messy from restless fingers running nervously through the long, pin-straight locks. Her hands, stained with ink, ached from overuse. Fainche was not a woman to waste time when she had spare and had taken to practicing her letters when sleep evaded her, which was often the case in recent weeks. While many of Fainche's baseborn origins were not fortunate enough to receive any sort of education, Fainche had weaseled her way into the pants of a rather...generous merchant in her younger years. He had been the fat sort, much larger than Varys, but he had found her amusing and she had been more than willing to abuse his 'kindness'. He had even been the one to introduce her to Magister Illyrio, and, by extension, Lord Varys. Very briefly did her mind linger on the possible implications that line of introductions entailed, before her thoughts scurried away from the topic like a spooked rabbit.

An untouched letter, deep red wax pressed with a stag, rested on the corner of the disorganized desk. Fainche knew what it was, even if she had yet to read its contents. A summons. _Summons_ - even the word made her want to spit in disgust. It made her feel akin to a dog, beckoned ever-so casually by its master. Of course, if she refused her master's call, she'd get much more than a whap to her ass, or rather, lose a lot more - like her head.

It was with these begrudging feelings plaguing her bones that Fainche moved to retrieve her deep green cloak. Varys had seen to gifting her some clothing, some odd number of fine dresses, rich in color, yet Fainche decidedly dressed herself in her customary leather jerkin and black, cowled tunic. A small, nigh insignificant, rebellion, yet it helped to reestablish her lost pride, nonetheless.

"Malachi, come," Fainche called to the shadowcat halfheartedly sleeping on her bed. His amber eyes opened with vague displeasure and his black-and-white tail flicked irritably, even so the beast slinked from his perch to join his master. It was in such a state of annoyed resignation that the woman and the beast departed from their temporarily permanent residence, starting off towards the scarlet walls of the Red Keep.

The way to the keep was ever-more tiresome each time she walked it, the seven shining spires of the Great Sept of Baelor and the black marble towers of the Alchemist's Guildhall quickly losing their novelty. The impoverished streets of King's Landing did little to better the journey either - the familiarity of pock-marked faces and desperate eyes nearly painful. Down one particular alleyway, she glimpsed several children with swollen bellies and faces that reminded her of dead fish - empty gazes and gaping mouths. Her eyes did not linger there long.

Fainche had to arrive at the foreboding gates of the Red Keep, eventually though, despite how little she wanted to enter those bleeding walls again. She was met with suspicion, as per usual, before she flashed her summons, although she doubted the man could read it, as his cloak wasn't quite _white_ enough. In her few days in the ever-welcoming walls of King's Landing, she had learned there were two types of guards here: the King's Guard, or the white cloaks, and the City Watch. While the City Watch could fuck whoever they wanted and more, Fainche discovered that the King's Guard had vows of chastity - as if sex would somehow make them lesser men. Although, she had also found that few white cloaks upheld that chaste nature, as her first taste of man here in King's Landing had been a white cloak. It almost made Fainche chuckle.

Slithering through the hallways, Fainche was expectedly cautious in the foreign corridors. Every passageway was a twin of the last - all grey-brown stone slab, lined with dark oak doors. None of them looked even vaguely familiar to Fainche and before long she decided that she was rightly lost. She slipped through one of the larger doors and found herself outside.

A thick wood stretched on before her, so dense that she was uncertain of its end. The trees felt older than the shadow that gave her homeland its name. Their branches reached into the sky like twisted arms and crooked digits grabbing for the sunlight as greedily as a did beggar for gold. It was strangely serene in the copse of trees and, despite their age warping their boughs, the trees seemed almost welcoming. Fainche, but a moment from wandering into the shade cast by the green canopy, froze as a man emerged from the dark depths.

He stood tall, mayhap a head more so than herself, but his shoulders hunched ever-so slightly beneath some invisible weight. The man's exact age was indeterminable to Fainche, his face seeming too young to have such a graying beard growing upon it. A small hand-shaped brooch was pinned to his breast, although what meaning it had was lost on Fainche, she knew a powerful man when she saw one. His expression was somber and the crinkle between his thick brows did not ease when his eyes, as gray as early morning fog, found hers. _What a gloomy man_, Fainche thought, her cat-like eyes not yet flickering away.

"Pardon me, my lord," Fainche began, thinking it wise to inquire as to where she was needed. By now, she certainly must have been boorishly late in regards to her summoning. "Do you know where the king is?" She very nearly cringed at her accent and the graciously quick once-over he gave her. Perhaps he though her a whore? He would not be the first to make that assumption, so Fainche remained relatively unruffled, despite the bold-faced insult the insinuation held.

"He is in with the Small Council, lady...?" He asked, in his seemingly permanent polite manner. _Oh how sweet,_ Fainche thought mordantly, schooling her thoughts to keep from laughing,_ He knows very well I am no lady._

"Fainche," she offered, smiling and thinking it would be best for one to dance when surrounded by dancers. "I am one of the performers from last night." Perhaps she would get lucky and her face would break from smiling and she would not have to force the expression any longer. Fainche knew there was little chance in that. "A thousand pardons, my lord, but as I am not from your Westeros, would you mind enlightening me with your name as well?"

"I am Eddard Stark, Head of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden in the North and, Hand of the King." Stark's voice took on a different tone when giving his titles, proud and honorable. She thought her tongue might get a bit tired if she had to repeat it upon every meeting, although it seemed as if it was a habit for the highborn now.

"Well met, Lord Stark," Fainche said, dipping her head in respect. It was forced, of course, despite the fact that this man held a different presence than most others in King's Landing. This Eddard Stark radiated integrity, his grey eyes held honor. Fainche was no less careful around the Hand of the King due to this man's apparent respectable nature, however. Honorable men were no less dangerous than devious men, they simply had different motivations, different justifications. "Perhaps you would not mind giving me directions to the small council room you spoke of?" Fainche smiled, hoping that it appeared pleasant and polite. She had grown rather weary of these forced smiles, so much so that she was slightly worried that her face was no longer cooperating with her. His lack of reaction relieved her of that particular concern, however.

"I am heading to the small council as well, my lady," he began, his expression not warming in the least. "It'd would be no trouble of mine to escort you there."

"My thanks, Lord Stark," Fainche responded, falling in step beside Eddard as he began walking.

He led her back through a pair of dark oak doors, different from the ones she had come from, and down another, and another and another snaking corridor of rich tapestries and grey walls. She supposed the surplus of rooms would help one hide in case of a raid or siege, but Fainche could not grasp why so few would need so large a space. She hadn't even seen as many servants as she had expected, and what did highborn care for baseborn servants? Guests perhaps, but-

Fainche's thoughts were interrupted by Eddard Stark directing her through a large door that led to a small room. A great wooden table dominated the space, a handful of men sat around it, waiting. She spied Varys among them, in an attractive pastel blue, and he smiled at her amicably once their eyes met. Another was a man of slight build and of reasonably handsome face, his grey-green eyes clever and inviting. He appeared agreeable enough, but the pointed goatee beneath his smile gave him a pointed look and the hungry gleam in his eyes gave Fainche a reason for caution. She had seen a similar look in many a man and it had never ended as pleasantly as she had hoped.

Fainche's attention lingered but a moment on those men [or sort of men, in Varys' case] as her eyes caught on a beautiful man in golden armor. Flaxen hair settled in waves around an angled face with comely features, bright green eyes appearing bored. A white cloak hung off of broad shoulders. _Such a shame_, Fainche thought as she inspected him, _I would not mind sharing a bed with him for a night_. She willed the thoughts away, realizing she had waited too long to speak with the council.

"My apologies for my late arrival, it is a long walk to your Red Keep and it is confusing once one gets inside its walls." Fainche dipped her courteously, plainly showing her repentance. Her apology was ignored for the most part, the men's attention being drawn to her companion before to the doors.

Robert Baratheon had woken in a foul mood and his Queen was to receive most of his impatience that day. Cersei Lannister accepted the King's verbal abuse as any lady of standing would - gracefully and deceitfully. The pair's one-sided argument filled the air of the small council room, Fainche suddenly feeling claustrophobic despite the couple not taking up all that much room [although that was more for Cersei than Robert.] Lover's quarrels interested Fainche not, however, and her mind wandered more to the vague sense of familiarity that she felt for the Queen.

Fainche disregarded the possibility of seeing a woman of similar features as the Queen on the streets - the soft curves and tall stature of Cersei Lannister would be nigh impossible for a baseborn to match. No one could have such golden hair, either, save for the man in the white cloak at the other end of the room. Twins, Fainche assumed, upon seeing them so close together. Fainche had heard the Queen had a twin brother from the gossipy barmaid at the Hanged Man's inn, but had yet to put two and two together until she had seen the her. Rather suddenly, images of golden hair, breathless cries of pleasure and messy sheets flooded the gates of Fainche's mind. It had been but a glimpse, but it had been enough.

Head tilting ever-so slightly to the right as the information settled into her mind, Fainche's amber eyes flickered back to Robert. _He doesn't know_, she thought, then searched the room with her gaze, _none of them know, or else those twins would have already lost their heads_.

Fainche very nearly laughed aloud, the severity of the situation being overshadowed by how clueless the men in the room were. A wolfish grin stretched across Fainche's face. _Your guard is fucking his sister and your wife right under your nose and you don't even suspect a thing_, she thought, amusement dancing in her eyes as she wondered just how much longer the Queen would be able to get away with this.

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A relatively quick update this time and with a longer chapter as well! Jaime is finally introduced, although he has yet to officially meet Fainche. I hope you are all enjoying this story and I'd like to thank **Insert Silly Pen Name Here** for being last chapter's sole reviewer! I'm glad to know you like the story so far :] But it be really great if you guys reviewed more! Faster reviews equal faster updates so please review!

Thanks for reading, see you soon!


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